The goblins are hiding somewhere in your house;
they’re spying on you, your kiddies, the spouse.
Nobody will see them, for they’re far too quick,
quite likely to disappear in one flick
of anyone’s eye, save maybe the cat
(I’m really not certain even of that),
for I suspect mine once did catch a glimpse
of the elusive, diminutive imps.
Her fur stood on end, she hissed and she howled,
but never caught one, though all night she prowled.
Those goblins had melted into the thin air —
that doesn’t mean they never were there!
The goblins are hiding somewhere in your home;
they skulk and they scramble, they sneak and they roam.
From this room to that room they search and they seek,
they peer under beds, into boxes they peek.
They’re eager for any loose loot they can pilfer;
look out for your jewelry, your watches, your silver!
When things will go missing, I know who’s to blame —
the little folk playing their favorite game;
so when people wonder who could be the thieves,
I tell them it’s goblins — but no one believes!
Stephen Brooke ©2024
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